Profane in Vain
by Enaid Aderyn
Summary: Akela Mahariel in a bad mood. So, business as usual . . . Rated M for language.


**Profane in Vain**

_**.oOo.**_

"Rrgh! Stinking, buggered _pustule!_"

Akela Mahariel was not happy. Even less than usual, which was saying a great deal. Bad enough he'd been tainted and lost his beloved blood brother. Bad enough to have been ordered away from the Clan by his hag of a Keeper and forced to join these bloody shemlen Wardens. Bad enough to have every nitwit on Thedas expecting him to personally remedy whatever their whinge of the day happened to be. Bad enough to be forced to have a pack of shemlen trailing along after him, refusing any responsibility and second-guessing all the decisions they had left to him in the first place.

"Rotted, bloody-!"

No, despite Akela's explicit instructions to _stand __still_ that idiot Alistair simply had to go charging past while he was carefully disarming a particularly fiendish pair of traps. Which was why he – not the metal-cased moron, oh, no – was now standing with an arm braced against the assassin's shoulder while the witch laboriously picked out the several dozen barbed metal fragments imbedded in the swath of cooked meat that used to be Mahariel's torso. He had the rigid self control to hold perfectly still while she worked, but nothing prevented him from otherwise venting his feelings.

"Argh! Puling Maker's limp _dick!_"

And the shemlen wouldn't go away, but hovered there bleating nonstop apologies and attempts at humor. He'd probably be lucky if Alistair didn't follow him the next time he went to take a-

"_Shit!_"

The words in the current stream of inane babble registered and Akela shot Alistair a sidelong glare.

"What was that? What are you on about now?"

"What? Oh! I just said how out of place it is for you to be swearing by the Maker. Kind of undermines your credibility as the Big Bad Dalish, you know?"

"I wasn't swearing, you idiot, I'm _swearing._" Akela spoke through clenched teeth.

"Clear as mud. Haha. Are you sure you didn't take a hit in the head?"

"No, I didn't. In spite of your best efforts."

"Look, I said I was sor-"

"I was – _ffffff_- cursing. Not making a vow. Obviously."

"Well, but, it comes to the same thing, right?"

"_Gaah! __Buggered__.__.__._No, it isn't the same thing." This was what came of making eye contact. "If I say 'Shit' does that make me a member of some fertilizer-worshipping cult? If I say- _son__of__a__BITCH!_ - do you think I'm on my knees before some whoreson?" Zevran cleared his throat. "Quiet, you."

"Even so," Alistair repeated stubbornly. "You can't deny you were calling on the nasty old shemlen god."

Really, shemlen? _This_ is the time you decide to grow a pair?

"If it has any meaning beyond random venting it's disrespect, not a sign of any belief in your _god __dammit!"_

"Huh." Alistair considered. "So, it wouldn't matter to you if I said ''Mythal's, um, fat face'? How would you like that?"

He took a nervous half-step back as Akela looked at him directly, pale eyes glittering through the dark green tattoos that covered most of his face.

"How would you like me to leave my boot up your arse?"

"I . . . well, isn't that just a little hypocritical?"

"I fail to see why." The elf dropped his gaze to check on the daughter of Asha'bellanar's progress. "Within one week of your precious Duncan's dragging me away from civilized society, I'd heard you Andrastians call on every conceivable extremity, organ and bodily function of your absentee god and his adulterous prophetess. If you who worship in your fool religion speak that way in casual conversation, don't expect _me_ to pretend to care. I, however, actually respect the Creators of my people and I don't - arrgh - call on them unless it actually means something."

"Oh, I think it's sweet!" The insane redhead announced in that hideous gluey voice as she peered around Alistair's bulk. "The Maker's name is on your lips in your time of trial! It can only mean He-"

"What are you-what is she doing here? What are you doing here?" Akela demanded. "I distinctly told you to piss off in Lothering!"

"Oh, I couldn't abandon you when the Maker told me to help," she burbled.

Alistair had the grace to look embarrassed. Akela snarled incoherently.

Blessed Creators, deliver me from swarms of idiot shemlen.

_"Fuck!"_

Or at least send the Dread Wolf to chew off the redhead's face.

_"Haargh! Bas on a breadstick!"_

The Qunari looked up and Akela narrowed his eyes.

"Yes? Was there something?"


End file.
